


Spike's Holiday Letters

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if vampires sent out annual holiday letters?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spike's Holiday Letters

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely silk_labyrinth not only was beta, but also played muse for me this time: This was her idea.

December 1880

Never seek to tell thy love,

Love that never told can be;

For the gentle wind doth move

Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,

I told her all my heart,

Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.

Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,

A traveller came by,

Silently, invisibly:

He took her with a sigh.

Blake had it only half right, as it turned out.

This year began a ghastly one. Mother was quite ill, and although Dr. Gull did his best, I was horrified to see her become gradually weaker. 

Neither was my professional life going as planned. I toiled away at my work day and night, but my oeuvre did not receive the recognition it was due. Mother said other people were envious of my talents, and no doubt she was correct, but I also believe they were simply too uncultured and naïve to appreciate the artistry of it. But it has oft been my fate to struggle amongst the philistines. Many a great man has been denied his proper recognition until after his death.

As for my personal life, well … there was a woman. Quite beautiful, of course. But, alas, her head was turned by the coarse crowds about her, and she would not acknowledge our mutual attraction. No doubt she would have come about in due time, but as it happened, other matters intervened and she no longer bears any interest for me. She is, in fact, beneath me.

The year—and I—were quite transformed due to the most extraordinary events! No longer must I suffer the petty scorn of the weak and unlettered. Indeed, I have triumphed over them all, and I have done so with the love and admiration of a beautiful and remarkable woman. Drusilla is her name; _dewy-eyed,_ as the Greeks would have it. She is my Aphrodite, my Helen, my all. With my gain also came a loss: my dear Mother passed from this life. It was a complicated and difficult event, of which I cannot yet speak.

Together with my new companions, I have spent the last months in the most diverting adventures, which time and discretion prevent me from relating here. One of my new companions is an imperious woman of questionable background, and the other is a terrible Irish brute, although I must say he does possess a certain primal appeal.

Suffice it to say that I am now a force to be reckoned with. I have shuffled from the mortal coil and found immortality and immense power. Already the snobs, who once belittled, shake at the sight of me; my name escapes tongues with gasps of fear.

Ah, my name. I have changed it, you see. Changed it twice, in actual fact. I first was called William the Bloody—and due to the aforementioned discretionary bounds, I will not give such reasons why. Now, more in keeping with my new self, I am Spike. And you had best remember it.

So it has been quite a _busy_ year, as you can tell, and the new year promises only more excitement. 

So happy Christmas and all that folderol, and watch for me in lampblack corners, a spectre amongst the shadows. 

***

December 1894

I find myself missing home this winter.

Not that I have not had some lovely times, mind you. My companions and I spent several months in Portugal and Spain, then visited Morocco, where the spices add a nice piquancy to humans’ blood, and where it is simple to drag a person into a tiny alley and drink one’s fill. After that, we sailed to Greece. I liked finding the young fishermen when they had just returned on their little boats, when they still smelled of sun and salt. And fish, naturally, but I was willing to overlook that. They had smooth skin over hard muscles, and rough hands, and their dark curls all tangled in my fingers.

I have discovered many new appetites, since I was turned.

In Autumn we went to Rome. Had a bit of a setback there, with that ponce the Immortal chaining up me and ’Gelus and seducing our women. Even once we were free, the ungrateful bints kept swooning over that pillock and making false and unflattering comparisons. Angelus and I finally had enough of that rot. The two of us left for Frankfurt, and then St. Petersburg. Turns out we make a good fighting pair, when the girls are not about to turn our heads. And during the day, when we were crammed into cupboards or hiding in shacks to avoid the sun, ’Gelus fed some of my new appetites. Bloody good he was, too—and it was not as if that sod did not have a smile on his face when I was done with him.

But eventually we yearned for softer bodies, and I worried over how poor, daft Dru was getting on. Would not trust Darla to keep her safe, to not let her wander off into the daylight. We met up with the girls again in Warsaw, and here we remain for now. Freezing our arses off, but feeding well.

Yet, I sometimes think still of England. There is now a new bridge across the Thames, one with towers and a span that can be raised for ships. I saw a drawing of it, but I should like to see it with mine own eyes. And Manchester has a new football team, I understand. I watched a few matches when I was at Cambridge. Bloody William was too weak to play; he only stood and sighed, and then wandered off to write foolish poems about the perfection of the male form, the stupid tosser. Things would be different now—I’d paint the field red with the other players’ blood.

Wesołych świąt bożego Narodzenia, as they say here. Happy bloody Christmas.

***

December 1898

It was not my fault.

I do not know what rubbish you may have heard, so I want to make it clear from the start—not my fault.

The year began as a lovely one. My companions and I took advantage of the long nights to terrorize Helsinki, Stockholm, and Finland. In Copenhagen I nearly met up with one of those Slayers that Angelus is always going on about, but apparently the girl was slain, herself, shortly before we arrived. Pity, that. And no way of knowing where her replacement might be; I shall keep my ears open for rumors.

Darla eventually tired of the cold and demanded we move farther south as the days grew longer. War was fomenting in the Pacific and Caribbean—some territorial dispute between Spain and the colonies—I mean the United States of America, of course. (Cheeky bastards, attempting to out-imperialize Mother England.) I reckoned it would be plenty warm on those islands, and wars always make for good hunting, so I suggested we travel to the Philippines, perhaps, or maybe Cuba. But Her Majesty vetoed the idea, and naturally she had Angelus as firmly by the bollocks as ever, so he acquiesced. I considered taking Dru there, but she carried on about leaving her bloody Daddy. So we remained together. That turned out all right in the end, however. There were riots and famine in Milan, and we went there instead.

After Italy, I suggested we return to Britain. I had not been there in ages, and I fancied a taste of home. Well, a taste of the people who live in my former home, more like. But that cow Darla got it in her head to travel east instead. Some months earlier, while Dru and I dallied in Trieste, Darla and Angelus had gone to Budapest to feast after the earthquake. Darla claimed everyone tasted lovely there, their blood rich with butter and cream. 

We ended up in Romania. Did not mind the place, really. Forests to hide in, peasants to frighten. But then Darla had to give her little boy a Gypsy as a birthday prezzie. Stupid twat. Thousands of fat, curse-free peasants to choose from and she picks a Gypsy. And who gives birthday presents to a 170-year-old vampire anyway? Of course ’Gelus did not ask any questions; that wanker just sank into a tasty bit of flesh without considering the consequences. If I had been there I would have talked some sense into both of them, but I was off with Dru that night, helping her search for pixies in the woods.

The next bit was not my fault, either. Angelus and Dru were so eager to be rid of the curse that they did not pause to allow me and Dru to feed. What did they care? They had had their fill from the Gypsy already. So Dru and I were ravenous by the time we reached the Gypsy encampment, and we could hardly be blamed for having a bit of a snack. It is not as if Dru and I wanted the big mick to stay cursed. Stupid bloody curses.

After that, ’Gelus left us. Do not know where he is now. 

It was just the three of us after that: me, Dru, and Her Majesty, with Darla taking out all her anger on me, and Dru bloody near inconsolable over the loss of her Daddy. Did not put me in the best of moods when we met up with that wanker, Dracula, and so that meeting didn’t go well. Arsehole still owes me eleven quid, he does.

The remainder of the year has been miserable. We returned north as the nights grew longer; the hunting is still good, but our dead hearts are not in it, not like before.

I need to find the Slayer. That accomplishment is sure to lift my spirits.

***

December 1900

If I had not met Dru, I would be a middle-aged man by now, perhaps with a dowdy wife and ungrateful children, and I would still be shivering in fear at the shadows, and in a short time I would be dead and forgotten. Instead, I am forever young, and I am strong and fearless. I am triumphant.

It was my idea to go to China. I had heard rumors of a Slayer there, you see. Dru did not seem to care one way or the other—she was preoccupied with her visions all Spring—and I lured Darla with promises of war and carnage. By the time we arrived, foreigners were being killed, or expelled, or were fleeing for their lives, and the locals were slaughtering one another. Good hunting.

Then Angelus showed up. The girls were ecstatic, but I had mixed feelings. Something was not right about his eyes, and instead of his old gleefully brutish self he seemed … brooding. Would not let me touch him either. If I tried, he gave me a look as if I were something scraped off the bottom of his boot. I will never again allow someone to tell me I am beneath him, so I went my own way, with Dru sometimes trailing behind.

I found my Slayer.

It was a bloody good fight. Tiny little thing she was, but stronger than most demons. I expect that, in the end, I loved life—or unlife—more than she did, and I won. Her blood tasted like fireworks.

Do not care anymore what other ponces think of me. Turns out ’Gelus was still harboring that dirty little soul of his. He was too cowardly to live like a demon, and too cowardly to do anything about it. Darla left us soon after, and good riddance. Now it is just me and Dru, and we will conquer the world, we will.

I am already looking for my next Slayer.

***

December 1943

Wars aren’t as good as they used to be. They’re more efficient now, I expect. Loads more dead, and so much quicker, but not in ways that might profit a vampire. And these wankers goose-stepping about, prattling about racial superiority, as if the entire human race weren’t simply stupid sheep, ready to be slaughtered.

Dru ran off with a Hyr’shn demon early in the year. Faithless bitch. She’ll come back to me, though. Always does. Truth be told, it’s a relief sometimes to be rid of her. I love her, but she’s a burden too.

I wandered Europe at will, feeding freely. Isn’t much sport in preying on refugees, though, and it’s disappointing to learn that there are humans who are feared more than me.

Went to Madrid for no particular reason. Got rat-arsed and fell for a ploy, ended up in the Nazi’s hands. They wanted me to fight for them, but I told them to sod off. I fight for myself and that’s all—not a load of humans with sticks up their Aryan arses. So they shoved me in a box and loaded me onto a bloody submarine. (Yanks took care of the Nazi supremacists. I’m glad the colonists have been up to some good, anyway.) And then the cargo—me and a few other monsters—took care of the surviving Krauts, and most of the rest of the Yanks, too. Not really our fault, though. We were hungry.

Don’t know exactly what the Krauts had in mind for us. I don’t trust anyone in a uniform; never have and never will. Dru told me once that she had a vision—a nasty one—of me and blokes in uniform. This Nazi shite had something to do with experiments, and I don’t much like the sound of that.

And then who should show up on the submarine but Angelus himself? Bossing people about like always, nattering on about some bloody mission. He had to turn one of the sailors to save the boat, and I’ll wager that rankled his soul-having arse no end. But he’s still a dick, cursed or not, and I ended up swimming 20 miles.

I’m in the States now. I quite fancy them, as it turns out. I’d like to spend more time here, maybe go to Hollywood and eat a film star or two. But now I’m waiting for the war to end so I can return to Europe and find my Dru. 

As for ’Gelus? Don’t know what became of the bloody pillock and don’t care.

***

December 1977

This year, I bagged my second Slayer. Most vamps can’t manage even one. Angelus—for all his boasting and glaring and bossing people about—never killed a single Slayer, even before the soul. And now I’ve two of them under my belt, and I was turned less than a century ago. I’m already looking for my third.

Found the second one in New York City. Oh, it’s a lovely place. Reminds me a bit of London, only newer and dirtier. Junkies, whores, young people who will shag anything that moves … I haven’t gone hungry here, that’s for certain. Last night I grabbed a young couplereturning home late after skating at Rockefeller Center. They tasted of rum.

But it’s not only the hunting I’ve enjoyed in the Big Apple. The music is bloody brilliant as well. I’m not certain the Yanks are ready to top the Sex Pistols and The Clash yet, but they have the Ramones and Richard Hell and a pretty little girl who calls her group Blondie.

Between Blondie and the dead Slayer, I’ve been inspired to change my look as well. Bleached my hair—can’t see it myself, of course, but I’ll wager I’m quite fetching as a blond. I nicked the Slayer’s leather coat, originally as a sort of souvenir, but now I’m quite taken with it and reckon I’ll keep it a while. I’ve added a few more details as well—piercings, eyeliner, rubbish like that. That ponce William would have had apoplexy had he looked in the mirror and seen me, but the boys and girls here fancy me well enough.

It was Dru's idea to come here in the first place—she claimed she had a vision that her precious Daddy was here. But we didn’t find any sign of the bastard, and she took up with a group of Progin demons and scarpered off to Wisconsin or some godforsaken place like that. I stayed here, and not because I held on to any hope of finding the old pillock. Wisconsin’s bloody cold this time of year.

I expect I’ll grow tired of this city soon enough and then I’ll collect Dru and drag her back across the pond. I may fancy New York but I’m looking forward to debuting my new look in Europe. Last year I saw a new band at the Roxy. They call themselves Generation X and the lead singer looks a bit like me. Not as handsome, of course, but I reckon I can give him a few tips on how to dress properly.

***

December 1997

I once looked forward to visiting California. I was a fool. Once I’m free of this shitehole I’m never coming back.

But I'm tolerating it for Dru, my poor darling Dru. We were in Prague, you see. Lovely city, with a castle on the hill and tourists just waiting to be eaten. But she had one of her spells and grabbed a local instead—in full view of a crowd—and the mob set on her. I only just managed to get her free; but she was so weak and frail afterward, and I was afraid she’d dust at a moment’s notice. I found a mage who claimed that a Hellmouth could help. Right, then. Took me some time, but I found out there was one in California. Even better, the Slayer was there. I reckoned I could kill two birds with one stone.

When we arrived in Sunnydale, I learned that ’Gelus was there as well—he’s taken to calling himself Angel. Still with the soul, and now prancing about like a comic book superhero, protecting the innocent or some such rot. One of those innocents is the Slayer. Can you believe the idiocy of a vampire falling for the Slayer? Prat.

The Hellmouth didn’t cure Dru, but a bit of a ritual and her sire’s blood did, and now she’s right as rain again, my princess. Same can’t be said for me, unfortunately. 

There were two Slayers here. Two. Whoever heard of such a thing? And they have a gang of bumbling humans surrounding them, teenagers with spotty faces and horrible clothes, plus one of those poncy Watchers, this one even worse than the average. They ganged up on me.

They broke my spine but didn’t break my spirit. I’ll mend soon enough, and when I do I’ll bag my third and fourth Slayers. Then Dru and I will leave this place and I’ll never return.

***

December 1998

It’s been one of those up and down years.

Began decidedly down, with me still in that bloody wheelchair. Then Angel shed his soul (who knew all it would take was a good shag—could have done that myself) and I was ready to celebrate. With Angelus back in the saddle, those Slayers would have no chance at all. My back would mend and the three of us would be back together: a happy, deadly family. 

But it turns out that a century under a curse had turned the old man batshit. Instead of simply killing the Slayer—and he had loads of chances—he played stupid little games and then came up with a ridiculous scheme to end the world. As if that would benefit us at all. To make things worse, Dru was head over heels with her Daddy again, leaving me high and dry, and didn’t the pillock love to rub that in.

Dru did bag a Slayer of her own, and that was good.

In the end I sided with the remaining Slayer to defeat Angelus. Never thought I would, but ’Gelus was a lost cause and I wanted to collect my Dru and get out of there. Which I did.

Had a lovely few months after that, a holiday in South America. 

And then Dru cast her eye on a Chaos demon and left me again. I’ve said it before—she’s a faithless bitch. I’ve weathered her storms in the past, but this time I was already feeling low on account of having recently mended and having allied myself with a Slayer. And perhaps because I’d lost Angelus for good. 

I did the one thing I’d promised myself not to do—I returned to Sunnydale. The Slayer has a witch as a mate and I reckoned the witch might have a spell for me, so I could re-attract Dru. When I got there I learned that ’Gelus wasn’t gone at all. He was back, soulier and broodier than ever, and still making cow eyes at the Slayer. Idiots.

Didn’t get the spell either, but I learned a thing or two. And I hurried back to Brazil, found Dru, and beat my love back into her addled brain. She's always gotten turned on by rough handling, and she says she’ll never leave me again. I don’t believe a word of it, but it’s lovely to hear.

***

December 1999

Don’t ask for much, do I? I’m a simple demon, really. Don’t want posh mansions, don’t fancy ruling the world. All I want is someone nice to eat, something good to watch on the telly, and someone to love. Okay, and a wildly good shag now and then.

I returned to Sunnydale again. Yeah, I know, but there was this ring, see? Would’ve made me immune to anything the bloody Slayer could do to me. But she stole it, the bitch, and sent it off to her beloved Angel, who’s set himself up in Los Angeles as some sort of caped crusader. Arse. I could have taken the bauble back myself, but perhaps I still had a soft spot for the old man, or a bit of loyalty left to one of my faithless sires. In any case, I hired someone else to do a job I should have done myself, and ended up losing the ring for good.

So back to the Hellmouth again, this time to end that Slayer forever. Only these soldier fucks got hold of me first and crippled me. Shoved a bit of plastic in my head and made it so I can’t even hunt. They say demons are cruel, but I’d never torture my prey just for the fun of it and call it science.

Considered crawling back to Peaches after that. If he wouldn’t feed me, at least he’d stake me. But I couldn’t—didn’t want to give the wanker the satisfaction.

Takes more than that to keep old Spike down, though. I can still fight demons, and I have been. Got the whole bloody lot of them terrified of me, and now the Slayer and her Scoobies pay me in gratitude. So I’m still hale and hearty, and I’ve learned there’s more ways than fangs to hurt a girl and her mates.

I’m working on a scheme to be rid of the bloody chip, and then I’ll string their entrails like Christmas garlands.

Something right odd happened to me last month. Well, odder than usual. One of the witch’s spells went amiss and for a time I fancied I was in love … with the Slayer! Can you imagine the absurdity of it? There we were, planning our nuptials, as if I wouldn’t rather bathe in her blood. 

***

December 2001

William Pratt was a fool of a man, and I’m a fool of a demon. Can’t help it.

I fell for the Slayer. Didn’t bloody want to. Couldn’t stop myself. She’s such a tiny thing, and she speaks the Queen’s English like a heathen, but she’s so _strong_. 

Dru's left me for good. I wish her well, with her slimy, antlered lovers. For a time I tried to deny what I felt for Buffy, and then I tried to replace her with a machine. Didn’t work.

But I stood up to a god to protect the Slayer’s little sister. Can’t say I’m proud of much of anything I’ve done as human or vampire, but I’m proud of that. Didn’t need a cursed soul, either.

Buffy died a few months back. It’s easy to write those simple words, but the grief that tore at my dead heart was like a ferocious beast. Still, I carried on in her memory, fighting her stupid fights and keeping an eye on the Bit. And I knew Buffy was at peace somewhere—somewhere good, along with her mum. May seem stupid, a demon believing in heaven; but I know hell exists, so mustn’t heaven as well? I wonder if there’s hot cocoa there, with those little marshmallows.

Anyhow, her friends brought her back. She’s not the same. But then nobody is after having died.

We sang the truth and then she kissed me, and after that, well, we brought a house down with our passion. I plan to show her that she can find a certain joy in darkness.

***

December 2002

The ghosts are here, like Marley but so much crueler in their taunts, they’ve no chains to rattle but only gaping wounds in their spectral throats, let me be, ghosts, I only wanted to give the girl what she deserved, but Christ it _burns_.

***

December 2003

It’s funny, isn’t it? Each year you reckon that unlife has been very strange, but you feel assured that somehow things will go back to normal the next year. Not that I’ve any idea what normal might be at this point.

Buffy rescued me from the First. She told me she loved me; I don’t believe her, but it was nice to hear. I expect she cares about me a bit, anyhow.

I saved the world this year.

I stood and I burned and I knew that because I did, Buffy and her sister and her friends would survive, and humans would go about their lives, most of them never even suspecting the apocalypse that nearly devoured them from beneath. Maybe it’s a short list of accomplishments for 140 years, but it’s a good one: protected those I loved, earned a soul, saved the world.

And then I died again. Don’t want to write about the time after—not suited for a holiday missive, really. It was blessedly short and I returned to earth as a ghost. That would have been bloody frustrating enough—couldn’t even wank!—but of all the tossers in the world, it was Peaches I had to haunt.

And I nearly ended up back in hell anyway.

But now here I am and I’m corporeal again. I’m told there’s a destiny for me. I don’t know that I believe that rot, but I did beat Angel in a fight, and that’s good enough for me.

***

December 2004

If I were the sort to send photos along with holiday letters, I’d have a good one for you this year: His Broodiness himself, turned into a fuzzy puppet! He had little felt fangs and his hair stood up worse than ever.

That was a highpoint in an otherwise mostly terrible year. Lost a good friend, a lovely girl who's now a blue demon goddess. Lost my hands. Had them sewn on again, but sometimes they still ache. Lost Buffy as well. More accurately, I admitted I never truly had her, and never could. And then there was a bloody awful battle, and more friends were lost. I tell myself—or the poof tells me—that it was worth it, that we won the war. Perhaps it was worth it. How’s a demon to judge?

I survived, though. I always seem to do.

Angel survived as well. I wanted to leave LA—never much fancied the place to begin with—but he owns a hotel and he wanted to stay. And then the most astonishing thing happened: he asked me to stay with him. After nearly a quarter of a millennium he’s grown up enough to admit that he’s lonely and that he could do worse than my company. So I've remained, and we’re fighting nasties and bickering and sometimes beating each other bloody.

But sometimes … just once in a great while, mind you … we’ve peace together.

I bought a Christmas tree this year and I set it up in the lobby. Covered it with tinsel and little sparkly ornaments, and at the top I stuck an angel in a long black coat. There are presents under the tree—a new sword that cost me a pretty penny, some scotch I’ll promise not to nick, a pair of silk pyjamas he’ll frown over and secretly love. Don’t know why I’m doing such a stupid thing. Whoever heard of a pair of vampires celebrating Christmas? And it’s not as if he’ll give me any pressies in return.

Except … soon now he’ll roll out of his poncy sheets and take a long shower with his fruity shampoo, and then he’ll spend ages arranging his hair just so. He’ll button up his wool trousers and posh shirt, and lace on his five-hundred dollar shoes. And when he comes down the stairs he’ll see the tree with me sitting under it, and I think he might smile.

And, yeah, that’ll be gift enough for me.

 _ ~~~fin~~~ _

  



End file.
